


every little thing is magic

by heartunsettledsoul



Series: tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Tumblr Prompts, bit and pieces and things i don't ever want to lose to the tumblr black hole, each chapter is a standalone, reposts from tumblr, wordcount: under 1k
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:04:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: just a home to keep the smaller, usually under 1k, tumblr prompts I filland as per usual, they're 110% bughead-centric





	1. spooked

“No,” Betty said. “No way.” 

 

“Oh come ON, B, it’ll be fun!” Veronica was looking at her imploringly. “What’s better to get us in the spooky spirit than a haunted house?” 

 

From the other side of Betty, Jughead snorted. In an attempt to make his point to Veronica very, very clear, he leaned over the table in her direction, his arm around Betty’s shoulder sliding down to settle on her thigh. “Veronica. We are not. Going. To. Cheryl’s. Party.” 

 

Veronica huffed. “But it’ll be fun,” she whined. 

 

“Nothing involving the Blossoms is ever fun,” countered Betty. 

 

“Especially not when it involves the goal of scaring the living daylights of everyone in Riverdale, which Cheryl can usually accomplish any other day of the year.” Jughead had a point, and even Veronica couldn’t find the flaw in his logic to argue with. 

 

Veronica pouted, and Betty’s inner people-please roared its ugly head. “Well, maybe…” she trailed off at Jughead’s sharp look and Veronica’s immediate glee. 

 

“Betty Cooper! You are a star! I’m going to need to get a positively enormous amount of online shopping done for my costume.” In a flash of black and pearls, she was gone, leaving a thoroughly dejected Jughead and an apprehensive Betty. 

“Jug…?” Betty tried her best to put on an innocent smile. 

 

He smiled ruefully back at her. “I’m stuck going to this thing, aren’t I?” Betty felt a rush of appreciation for her wonderfully amiable boyfriend. Despite his prickly exterior and general moody demeanor, Jughead would do just about anything for the people he cared about. Betty counted herself as extremely lucky that she fell into that category. Having Jughead Jones in your corner was like having an extremely strong (and handsome) safety net. 

 

“Only if you’re not totally, totally averse to the idea!” Betty supplied quickly. “I know Veronica will pout forever if I don’t go with her, but if you’re going to be miserable there, I can survive on my own for a little while. I’d said I would go, not that I’d go for a long time.” 

 

Jughead lifted a hand to Betty’s chin and brought her in for a brief kiss. “I could never be miserable if I’m with you.” Betty blushed. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t pretend so Veronica thinks she owes me one.” 

  
  


He didn’t have to pretend that hard. Cheryl’s haunted house party was a spectacle: large swaths of black lace and purple silk, pumpkins the size of small boulders, and what were probably the most expensive fake spiders on the planet, because each one was adorned with what Jughead guessed were probably real diamonds. Everything screamed Blossom. Veronica, Kevin, and Archie were in heaven, gleefully looking around in awe and running for the bar cart. Jughead and Betty were decidedly less excited. Jughead knew why he was unsettled, but couldn’t quite figure out what had Betty so on edge. 

 

“You alright, Betts?” He murmured in her ear, squeezing her hip gently. Betty listed into him, resting her head on his shoulder and sighing lightly. 

 

“I forgot how much I hate coming to this house,” she said. Jughead turned to look her in the eye, seeing tears pool up in her heavily lined lids. Veronica had talked her into dressing up as the leather jacket Sandy to her Rizzo and while Jughead loved every version of Betty, he had to admit that the dark cat eye suited her spectacularly well. He carefully wiped away a couple of the tears before they smudged the makeup he knew she spent ages on. 

 

“Come on,” he whispered, tugging her hand back in the direction they’d come from when they entered. “Let’s get some air.” 

 

Outside the enormous Blossom mansion, the crowd was significantly less suffocating, though there were still lots of drunken, costumed party-goers milling around the front yard. Betty seemed to be breathing easier now, but Jughead still kept his fingers laced through hers in a subtle effort to make sure her nails didn’t dig into her palms. 

 

Jughead weaved his way through the insanity until he found a quiet corner by a fountain of all things, Betty trailing behind him and trying to choke back tears. They sat on the stone perimeter and Jughead pulled her into his chest so that anyone who might come in their direction wouldn’t see Betty crying. 

 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Jughead rubbed his hand across Betty’s back, trying to ease the sobs that were wracking her body. She pulled back after a few moments, gulping in air. “What happened?” 

 

“I don’t know,” she said shakily. “Sometimes being around all this makes me feel as miserable and self-conscious as the first time Cheryl decided to unleash her worst on me.” 

 

Jughead pressed his lips to her forehead before swiping at her tears with his thumbs. “I know I can’t make that go away, but for what it’s worth, you look incredible tonight.” 

 

The way Betty looked at him in that moment made him dizzy; the love and trust in her eyes was so clear and he knew if he could look in a mirror, his eyes would look the same. “I love you so much, Jug,” she whispered. 

 

“I love you more, Betty Cooper.” 


	2. serendipitous

All Betty wanted that morning was to sit in her favorite armchair at her favorite cafe and sip at her latte while doing schoolwork. Just that. It was small and simple and she had been looking forward to it all week. So naturally, the world had to fall apart. 

 

First it was the low grade on her chemistry exam. Betty had been so used to being the medium fish in her small-sized pond at Riverdale High that, while she certainly studied, she hadn’t had to study incredibly hard. But college chemistry was a lot harder than high school chemistry, which she was learning the hard way. The C itself hadn’t been enough to ruin the week -- their professor would drop their lowest exam grade, so all Betty needed to do was meet with a peer tutor and chain herself to the library until she passed the course and was done with her science requirement. 

 

But then it was the phone call from her mother. Alice Cooper was demanding twice-weekly phone calls for updates on her youngest daughter’s life; it was not her only way of keeping tabs, Betty was sure, but it was somehow more exhausting than being under Alice’s watchful eye while living at home. And Betty was just distracted enough by the poor chemistry grade that it slipped out in passing during the latest phone call while she was multitasking. Alice’s sharp reprimands had yanked Betty back into focus and she’d had to endure a full half hour lecture on the importance of “keeping up appearances” and “presenting your best self” and by the time it was done, Betty had burrowed into her bed to sleep. Only to be kept up half the night by her neighbor’s loud party music. 

 

So come Saturday morning, all Betty wanted was her latte. She was up early enough that the cafe just down the road from campus was not quite full of the hungover morning crowd, but her newfound favorite chair in the front corner was already taken. She tried not to send too many dejected glances toward it, and its beanie-wearing inhabitat, but she really did like that chair. Trying to brush it off, Betty ordered her large pumpkin spice latte, grateful that the weather was finally reflecting the date and that she could enjoy her weekly indulgent autumn drink. 

 

She carefully carried it over to a small table behind the armchair she really wanted, so that it was in direct sightline in case the young guy with his nose buried in a book decided to leave. Betty squinted at the back of his head, trying to remember if she had seen him before, because he was reading the book she recognized as the week’s reading for her environmental literature class. He seemed cute, if you could truly judge someone’s cuteness from a slight silhouette, a hat that vaguely resembled a crown, and hunched shoulders. 

 

As though the boy could feel Betty’s eyes boring into him, he turned around suddenly and she jumped, not wanting to be caught staring. In her quick movement, she elbowed the handle of her latte and spiced foam went flying everywhere. The loud crash and Betty’s panicked “oh no!” reverberated through the quiet cafe as the mug and saucer clattered to the ground, with her laptop and pile of books following quickly behind. 

 

Now the beanie boy was staring at her. Still shocked, Betty stared at the mess on the floor and blinked. He jumped into action, moving around Betty’s frozen figure, swiftly picking up her computer from the dangerous liquid and grabbing a couple of her books before they got soaked through. 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

His eyes were so clear and bright, and his mouth quirked into a smile as Betty continued to stare at him dumbfounded. She slowly came to life, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks, and burn in embarrassment. “Oh. Oh! Oh god, I’m so sorry.” The barista appeared with a mop and Betty turned to her, “I’m so sorry, let me help you.” She waved her off, leaving Betty to wipe off her belongings with some wadded napkins the boy had gathered for you. 

 

“It looks like your computer survived its swim, at least.” That smile again. 

 

Betty sighed, trying not to blush again. “I don’t think my books were so lucky.” The boy surveyed the stack, eyes alight at the book he had been reading moments before. 

 

“You’re taking environmental lit, too?” Betty nodded, biting her lip and willing herself not to say or do something stupid. Again. He really was cute, her hunch had been right. He gestured to the same book sitting on the arm of the chair. “I’ll be here for a while, so you’re welcome to borrow my copy while yours dries out.” 

 

“That would be amazing, are you sure you don’t mind?” Betty could feel every nerve ending in her body, and was even mildly aware of all the hairs on her head. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this caught off guard by a boy before. 

 

“Nah, it’s fine.” He picked up the book and handed it to Betty, suddenly looking less confident when their fingers brushed during the transaction. 

 

Feeling bold, Betty gathered up her things and settled in the armchair directly across from the boy’s. At this update, he looked taken aback, if not a bit pleased. After a long pause, he opened his mouth again. “I’m Jughead, by the way.” 

 

Betty smiled. “Betty, nice to meet you.” 

 

Now Jughead blushed. “Can I buy you a replacement coffee?” 

 


	3. mischief

Jughead didn’t usually like to play into the suburbia stereotypes, despite the fact that the town of Riverdale itself played into every single one of them. Yet here he was, digging around for something black in his closet that would fit Betty. Because as much as he despised the suburban lifestyle, he loved Betty Cooper, Betty Cooper lived the suburban lifestyle to a T. And this year, Betty Cooper wanted to participate in Mischief Night. 

 

She had simply looked too adorable asking him for Jughead to say no to her (not that Jughead Jones could ever possibly say no to Betty Cooper, no matter the question). So he was searching through his mostly monochromatic wardrobe for something Betty could borrow since, in the words of Archie, most of her clothing is so bright she’d glow in the dark. It was, naturally, Archie’s idea to drag their whole group out for the annual shenanigans once Veronica mentioned she’d never had a proper small-town Halloween. 

 

“Well, Ronnie,” he’d grinned. “The trick or treating is great and all, but we have  _ got  _ to do mischief night to give you the full experience.” There was no turning back from that. Veronica had gleefully convinced Betty and Betty in turn asked Jughead, pleading earnestly and smiling expectantly in the way that made Jughead’s heart melt. 

 

He wanted to melt in quite a different way when he watched Betty shrug on the black hoodie he’d lent her. She was wearing the black leggings she usually reserved for weekend mornings and a plain long-sleeved shirt borrowed from Veronica. The lack of pastel was jarring, but somehow made the green in her eyes sparkle a little bit brighter. She came into view slowly as Jughead climbed the ladder that somehow still hadn’t been removed from the side of the Cooper house. Mercifully, Betty had her back turned, and couldn’t see the extra long moment Jughead took to collect himself before knocking on the windowpane. 

 

Her smile lit up the dark evening when she turned and saw him, then Jughead felt like he needed a few more long moments. He was keeping it together until she pulled down the hoodie he’d slung over his shoulder for the climb up the ladder and slipped into it. He wasn’t that much bigger than Betty with his slim frame, but he had a solid few inches on her, enough to make the sweatshirt drape loosely over her. Something low in his belly stirred at the image of her wearing his clothing and he swallowed before stepping into her. 

 

Betty, distracted while cuffing the long sleeves to free her hands, started a little when she looked up and realized how close Jughead was to her. She recognized the glint in his eye as something that usually preceded a lot of throat-clearing and subject-changing, but this time Jughead wasn’t backing away with a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. 

 

Betty now needed a moment to swallow deeply. “Hi Juggie,” it came out as a whisper and was quickly cut off as Jughead closed the distance between them swiftly and captured her lips in a searing kiss. His hands gripped tightly at her waist, fisting in the material that had him so revved up. Betty ran her arms up and over his shoulders, grasped him closer as their mouths moved over each other feverishly. They broke apart gasping when Betty’s phone chimed loudly. 

Jughead didn’t let go of her waist. Betty glanced over to her phone on the bed reluctantly. “That’ll be Veronica, we probably need to get going.” 

 

“Or we don’t,” Jughead said simply, hormones still coursing through his veins and voice several tones lower than usual. 

 

“ _ Jug. _ ” Betty looked at him plaintively before pressing a firm, but quick and close-lipped, kiss to him. 

 

He sighed. “Fine, but you’re wearing only all black and that hoodie from now on.” 

 

“Deal.” 


	4. lack of proof

They’re sitting across from each other at the Andrews’ kitchen table when the bickering starts again. Archie invited a small group over for pizza on the last day of winter finals so they could blow off steam in the form of fried dough, cheese, and a lot of sugar. He and Jughead started by playing video games but as more people showed up – Betty, Veronica, Kevin, even Reggie for a brief twenty minutes to steal half a pizza and then leave – the game night evolved to the board variety.

The group is playing a somewhat heated game of Scrabble, though Betty and Jughead are collectively kicking everybody else’s butts so the game is really only heated between the two of them. The good-natured jibes started innocently enough until their scores evened out and friendly jibes turned to insults.

Not insults in the expected way, but ones that attack writing style and grammar usage because it was Betty and Jughead after all. The rest of the group just rolls their eyes and continues to play low-point words just to placate their arguing friends. It was always like this: Betty’s people-pleasing nature and Jughead’s inherent cynicism clashing, even though they clashed over the same passion points, particularly when it involved an element of competition. .

To Archie, who spent the most time with both of them, the bickering intensified in recent weeks but he no desire to stir the pot by bringing it up.

“Oh shut up, Holden Caulfield, that isn’t even a word.”

“I will look it up in the dictionary right now. We both know I’m the better speller.”

“Prove it,” snaps Betty.

Kevin is the one who loses it first. “I quit. You guys suck the fun out of this every time.” He points to Archie, “teach me how to play your jock video games, I beg of you.” They all trail out of the kitchen, Veronica throwing Betty a skeptical look before leaving the pair glaring at each other from across the table.

The angry glare in Betty’s eyes melts into laughter. “Do you think they’re still buying it?” she whispers.

Jughead reaches his hand across the table to lace his fingers through hers, his thumb rubbing light circles on her skin. “We might have laid it on a little thick tonight,” he responds quietly. “Should probably just tell them all before it looks like we’re going to strangle each other.” He grins at her impishly. “This is still kind of fun though.”


	5. let's talk about last night

When Betty wakes up, her head is pounding and her mouth feels fuzzy. There’s sunlight streaming through the windows and she groans when she opens her eyes to the brightness. She can practically smell the tequila on herself, which consequently makes her want to heave.

The night before comes to her in flashes: dancing on the bartop with Veronica, shot after shot burning down her throat, a man’s lips on her collarbone, throwing her clothes off one by one as they stumbled toward the bed she lay in now.

With a groan, Betty pulls the covers all the way over her head in an attempt to block out the sun before a voice from across the room startles her.

“We should probably talk about last night.”

Betty peeks out under her blankets, blinking in the bright light at the dark-haired man leaning against the doorframe. He’s holding a glass of water and a bottle of advil, grinning ruefully. There’s a hickey blooming on his neck that she now vividly remembers giving him.

“I don’t want to,” she says sheepishly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” sing-songs her boyfriend, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed. “I, for one, cannot wait to tell you all the devilish things you whispered in my ear after I picked you up from Veronica’s bachelorette party.”

Betty gratefully accepts the water he hands her and looks sheepishly up at him. “Ugh, Jughead, please do not. I am happy to live the rest of my life never knowing what I’ve done after a night of strip club tequila shots.” The gulps of water help quench her thirst but turns her stomach, so Betty flops back into the pillows with a hand over her face.

“Let’s see,” Jughead starts in mock thoughtfulness. “There was the voicemail you left while trying to dance on the pole yourself, and then the 30 eggplant emojis after you realized tequila makes you horny. Oh! And when I picked you up from the last bar of the night, you climbed on top of me in the car, saying – and I quote – please fuck me senseless Jughead Jones.”

“Stop, stop!” Betty grabs fruitlessly at Jughead’s arms in an effort to quiet him. When he keeps going, she curls into his upright body, breathing in the scent of his worn tshirt and groaning at the sheer delight in his voice.

“Then when we got home, you left me this lovely hickey, took both our pants off, and then cried when you couldn’t unhook your own bra.”

Betty groans. “Alright I think we’ve sufficiently covered that fact that drunk Betty is a hot mess and I should never be allowed near tequila again.”

Jughead strokes her hair lovingly, laughing softly at his girlfriend’s annoyance. “Just one more, I swear.” Betty lifts her head to glare at him. “You also told me that you found the ring I thought I had done a pretty excellent job of hiding and that when I finally nutted up and asked you to marry me, you’d say yes.”

“Oh.” She remembers telling him now. She found the ring in the back of their shared closet, shoved in the toe of a dress shoe that fell on her head when she was digging for a skirt she hadn’t worn since college because Veronica insisted they all dress “provocatively” for the party. Betty was so excited but hadn’t wanted to tell Veronica for fear of stealing her proverbial thunder. Apparently her drunk self had still wanted to spill the beans.

“Oh, indeed, my love. And just so you know, I’ve hidden it again and I am outlawing tequila at your own bachelorette party.”

“Fair enough.”


	6. kiss me hard before you

It’s the dead of the summer, humidity thick as soup and sweat dripping off everyone’s skin, when Jughead appears in Betty’s open window. His ever-present beanie is still on top of his curls, but the usual lock of hair that escapes over his forehead is plastered down by sweat. The whole city of Riverdale is sweltering in the heat, itching to do  _anything_ that would cool them off or distract them from just how damn hot it was.

So naturally, Jughead Jones climbs the ladder up to Betty Cooper’s window for the millionth time that year to drag her out to do something, anything. Though he does have an “anything” in mind.

Inside her bedroom, Betty is sitting on the bare floor in front of an electric fan, wearing the shortest cheer shorts that could possibly exist and a tiny blue camisole that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. And it is killing him. “Betts!” he stage whispers through the window.

She looks up and beams, as she does every single time he appears in her window – or at her door, or her locker after class, or across the booth at Pop’s. Betty will forever be nothing less than thrilled to see Jughead, the love radiating from her like Jughead has never before experienced. There is such an expanse of creamy white skin in front of him while Betty unfolds her legs and bounds over to him that it takes more of his self-control than he’s willing to admit to not give up his entire plan and just climb on top of her right there.

“Up for an adventure?” he asks, settling for just planting a quick, hard kiss on her lips – with a maybe not-so-gentle squeeze of her hip.

Sometime about the mischievous glint in his eyes sets off Betty’s alarm bells. She quirks an eyebrow at him, “Where are you taking me, Juggie?”

“Just trust me,” he says. So she does.

They wind up at one of the swimming holes of Sweetwater River; the walk there takes some time and it’s well past midnight by the time they arrive but Betty says nothing about her curfew or getting caught or being in trouble with Alice. She’s still the same type-A, cautious Betty Cooper that she’s always been, but over time – time with Jughead – she’s softened. Her indulgences of his whims has heightened her threshold for rule-breaking.

But the threshold is still low enough for her to sharply hiss, “Jug, what are you doing?” when he lifts off his tshirt, tosses it on the sandy river bank, and moves to undo the buckle of his jeans.

“What does it look like we’re doing, Betty? We’re going skinny-dipping.”

He’s down to just his boxers now and Betty is momentarily distracted by the sheer expanse of bare skin and muscles. They’re no strangers to each other’s naked bodies by now, but it doesn’t stop her from being ever-so-appreciative of the muscles her boyfriend so often keeps hidden by layers of clothing.

It’s the location of his state of undress that brings her back down to earth. “ _We_  are doing no such thing. We could get arrested for this!”

“Betts, it’s nearly 1am and we’re in the middle of the woods. No one is going to arrest us for skinny-dipping.”

Her mouth opens to fight him on that, but she closes it. Because, honestly, screw it. She slips out of her shorts and pulls off her tank, bare beneath it, and Jughead can’t help but notice that the pale skin of her breasts glows in the moonlight.

And then they’re down to nothing and racing each other to the water. They each land with a splash that breaks the deafening silence of the night and when they resurface, Betty is giggling uncontrollably. Jughead kisses the laughter right out of her and they stay that way for what seems like ages, standing waist deep in the water and holding each other like the world might end if they let go.

Eventually the kisses speed up; Betty threads her fingers through his wet, tangled hair, Jughead splays his hands across the small of her back, sliding one down over the curve of her ass until he grips the back of her thigh and hitches it around his hip. As their hands wander, teasing short gasps and deep groans out of each other, the kisses grow messy until Jughead has Betty falling apart on his fingers and she makes him finish with a growl.

They stay in the water for a while afterwards, swimming laps and splashing each other. They kiss even more and hold hands and talk about their future while floating on their backs and staring up into the sky. In this moment, under the stars, it is easy to imagine the world at their fingertips.


	7. the baffled king composes

The first time Betty saw something with the basquiat crown in stores after she and Jughead started dating, it was the soft gray sweater she wore on the day of his disastrous birthday party. Though the smile he bore in reaction was wide enough to split his face in two and the tips of his ears turned a noticeable shade of pink, the whole experience left a bad taste in her mouth. 

 

Now that they’ve come as far as they have -- suffering through one serial killer, two breakups, one giant mess of gang affiliations, and one more dead body -- Betty feels as solid as ever in her relationship with Jughead. But something in her, some quiet voice that purrs happily when Jughead slings a protective arm over her shoulder or kisses her just hard enough to bend her back slightly, wishes for an opportunity to more loudly proclaim that they’re together -- that they belong, more or less, to each other now. 

 

(She knows it all sounds and feels a little too Jane Austen and she’s a modern woman, god dammit. But still. She loves Jughead. And she wants everyone to know it.)

 

Betty has on occasion worn his jackets as an extra layer when it started raining or when she shivered next to him in a Pop’s booth; having the cool leather of his Serpent jacket rest heavy on her shoulders, however briefly, made her feel lighter, happier. It was a tangible reminder that the two of them were solid, that they were confident in their relationship. 

 

So when she’s on a shopping trip with Veronica, something on the rack of jewelry catches her eye. Buried amongst the shinier baubles and the kind of large, sparkling earrings she couldn’t dream of wearing, is a pair of small silver studs shaped like crowns. 

 

Betty stops dead, reaching out to pick them up on their velvet display, while Veronica continues further onto the shoe department. It’s a few moments before she circles back to find her friend staring at the pair of earrings. 

 

Betty looks startled when Veronica smirks and says, “Oh you  _ have  _ to get those. Jug would probably die.” 

 

The purring is back. “You think so?” They’re only $12 and Alice had surprised her by handing Betty a twenty dollar bill before dropping her at Veronica’s. She buys them, blushing head to toe when she sits on a bench outside the boutique to exchange her simple round studs for the little crowns. 

 

She’s still feeling a little bashful about the whole ordeal when she meets Jughead at Pop’s later that afternoon -- it’s not like Jughead  _ asks  _ for her to wear something that essential brands her as his, and he never would. It feels frivolous and childish and she wears her hair down to cover them up slightly because for as much as she may be second-guessing herself, Betty also wants to see Jughead’s reaction. 

 

He’s distracted enough by the fact that her hair is down from its usual ponytail, so the two make it through their burgers, milkshakes, and fries without incident. Betty forgets about them entirely, lost in discussion of the latest true crime novel Jughead picked up from the library and detailing all the excruciating Vixens practices from the week. 

 

It’s not until they’re making out heavily in the front seat of FP’s beat-up truck that the crown earrings become a topic of conversation. 

 

Betty’s mind is miles above the crowds, focusing only on the warm heat of Jughead’s lips kissing across her jaw and his strong fingers lacing through her loose waves. Her hands grip his shoulders, panting heavily, and she whines when Jughead stops suddenly. The loss of contact against her skin is brutal and she chases after him when he pulls back, a look of confusion glancing across his face. 

 

“Betts,” he says, using his hand to tuck her hair behind the opposite ear of where he’s cupping her face. Betty remembers in an instant and flushes, instantly worried by his distinctly not-positive reaction. “Are you… are those  _ crowns?” _

 

“I’m sorry,” she breathes out quickly. Everything inside her feels like it’s crumbling and she bites her lip in an effort to stop her eyes from watering. “I saw them when Ronnie and I went shopping and I thoug-- I thought you’d like them, but--” 

 

“Oh my god,” Jughead breathes. “ _ God,  _ don’t be sorry.” It’s then that Betty notices her boyfriend’s face is also faintly red and that his pupils are blown wide as he looks at her in awe. “Those are-- that is-- Betts, that is so sexy.” He face reddens a little bit more as the words slip out, almost as if he hadn’t meant to say them aloud. “I mean, I don’t want you to think that you  _ have to  _ wear something of mine, or that you’re supposed to or anything but…” 

 

Betty giggles as Jughead, for the first time ever, scrambles for words. He narrows his eyes at her in a way that warns her of what’s to come. Instead of finishing his sentence, Jughead lunges over the console, pressing his lips on hers feverishly and twisting his fingers through her hair again. 

 

His teeth nip at her earlobe before he presses his lips into the space just behind her ear, sucking a mark into it that makes Betty have to wear her hair the next couple of days. She makes sure to tuck the blonde locks behind her ears, though, so the silver of the crowns glitter in the light. 


	8. good things in small packages

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. He never knew how to approach Betty after they’d argued; how he manages conflict, and his own quick temper, is something Jughead still has to work on. It flares so quickly, his voice raising easily – a remnant of his teenage days when he’d needed to shout to get FP to take anything he said seriously – and nearly always ends with his fiancee in tears, leaving the room and telling him too go cool off. 

Jughead  _hates_ seeing how much he can hurt her. Often times, it’s an even argument, both of them sniping at each other before Jughead inevitably takes it too far and starts yelling, but it still ends with them apologizing to each other (Jughead with an extra  _I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled)._ But today he had no excuse. The day sucked, the foreman at his construction day job making him stay late, and Jughead was already pissed off when he walked in the door of their apartment. 

He walked in to find Betty cleaning up the remnants of what was supposed to be a surprise date night. The tiny kitchen table still had lit candles, but the plate in front of his chair was covered in foil, and Betty was scrubbing dishes–wearing her pajamas but face done up in a way that told him she’d been dressed up earlier. 

Shockingly, even though he was home three hours later than usual, Betty wasn’t mad. She still smiled when he walked in the door, and only whispered a slightly sad, “I thought you’d be home earlier.” Stupidly, Jughead had snapped. Went on and on about the shitty construction job he worked so they could both afford to freelance and keep their tiny one bedroom in the gorgeous brownstone Betty couldn’t resist. Even as he was saying the words, Jughead knew he was fucking up. Enormously. 

Betty had simply left the dishes in the sink and retreated to their bedroom. Jughead sighed heavily before starting to count backwards from 50 – a technique his college therapist had taught him when he was still sorting through all the shit their teenage years had brought him and Betty. 

When he finally walked in their bedroom, Betty is sitting cross-legged on their bed, waiting for him. He doesn’t get past opening his mouth to apologize before she cuts him off, smiling through unshed tears that make Jughead want to punch himself in the face. 

“You jackass,” she said lovingly. He nods profusely. The  _biggest jackass on the planet._ “Don’t beat yourself up, Juggie. I mean you’re still a jackass, but you’re a jackass who’s going to be a dad so you get a free pass tonight.” 

Jughead’s jaw drops open. 

“Surprise,” giggled Betty. 


	9. tuesdays

Tuesday is laundry day. Jughead  _used_ to do his laundry on Thursdays, until the day he’d done an emergency load on a Tuesday afternoon (pro tip: if you don’t immediately try to get grease off your only nice shirt, it  _will_ be ruined. Not that it’s something he’s ever done. Twice.) That particular Tuesday, he’d run into a beautiful blonde in the building laundry room, perched cross-legged on top of one of the washer, thumbing through a brick-sized novel.

She’d looked up when Jughead came in, giving him a soft smile before returning to her book. Somewhat sheepishly, he’d used the machine next to her to start attacking his shirt with stain remover.

After a few moments of watching him flounder, she’d chirped, “Dish soap cuts grease stains pretty well.”

Caught entirely off guard, stunned into silence by the girl’s sparkling green eyes, it took him far too long to respond. “Thanks,” he mumbled, mentally berating himself. 

So he does laundry on Tuesdays now, bringing down his own books or his laptop to write and sharing the space in companionable silence with her – Betty, he learned on week two. Tuesday afternoons are, by far, the best of his week.


	10. juliet

“You remembered,” Betty whispers as Jughead does his best to quietly clamber through her bedroom window. 

Once he regains his footing, he sweeps his girlfriend into a kiss that started out purposely melodramatic but ends with Betty gasping into his mouth and Jughead’s fingers flexing impatiently against her hip. 

But tonight is about romancing, he reminds himself before counting to ten and doing his best to think about Archie’s sweaty football uniform instead of the tiny sleep shorts his girlfriend is wearing–or the fact that it’s been several days since they’ve had time alone to do the things the tiny sleep shorts are making him want to do. 

“Betts,” says Jughead. “I know there’s been multiple murders, one stalking attempt, a bunch of gang shit, a drag race, your creepy brother,  _and_ high school drama on top of that.” She snorts, and he’s never found anything more endearing. “ _But,”_ he continues. “I would never forget that a year ago today I climbed up that half-rotted ladder for the first time and made a cringey Shakespeare reference out of sheer anxiety over kissing you.” 


	11. musketeers

“You’re breaking up with me?” Betty knows she should be upset, but instead finds herself surprisingly okay with this turn of events. 

Her now-ex misreads the question as Betty getting emotional in disbelief and starts rambling about how it’s just not working, they want different things, on and on. She doesn’t check back in until she hears, “plus you’re clearly in love with that friend from high school you’re always hanging out with.” 

Betty blinks. “Wait, you think I have a thing for Jughead?” 

“You’re abnormally close for supposedly platonic childhood friends, that’s all I’m saying.” 

They part ways with a stiff hug and a kiss on the cheek, and there’s no love lost. Her phone has been buzzing consistently for a few moments, a telltale sign there’s an ongoing conversation in the group text with herself, Archie, and Jughead. The childhood Three Musketeers. She opens the text thread and starts tapping out a response,  _date night ended early,_ before changing her mind. Instead she presses the call button next to Jughead’s name. 

“Hey, Juggie. Are you busy?” 


	12. she's imperfect, but she tries

“Please, Jug. Please stop yelling at me.” 

“I just don’t  _get it,_ Betts. How could you be so completely moronic? It’s an goddamn gang tat you just branded yourself with.” In his anger, Jughead starts pacing around the trailer, running fingers through his messy hair and sending glares toward Betty’s bandaged forearm. 

He’d known, as soon as Sweet Pea started questioning Betty’s quote-unquote loyalty to the Southside, that she might do something classically Betty and do something absurd to prove herself and prove how much she cares. (She’d done it before, he remembers bitterly, wishing he could one day remove the image of her on the Wyrm’s pole from his brain.) And, Betty being Betty, she did exactly that. 

It’s small, which is the only reason Jughead isn’t going completely ballistic, but it’s still a  _goddamn Serpent tattoo on her wrist._ He keeps pacing, his frustrated swearing interspersed with a few exasperated  _damn it Bettys,_ and it’s only when he expels the last bit of rage by kicking his Serpents jacket from where it sits on the ground and it sails across the trailer that he sees Betty’s eyes are full of tears. 

They spill over her trembling lip, caught between her teeth. “I’m sorry I always make you so mad at me.” She looks so vulnerable in that moment that Jughead deflates immediately. 

He’s by her side in a flash, soothing her with a kiss to her temple. “Aw, christ, Betty. I’m mad you did this, but I could never be mad  _at_ you, not again. Trust me when I say I get no joy out of you being sad.” Betty rests her head against Jughead’s shoulder and sucks in a shuddering breath. 

“I know a tattoo seems idiotic, Jug, but it just means what we already know. That we’re in this together until the end of time.” 

When she puts it that way, pouring all her love into a few words, Jughead feels inclined to agree. 


	13. green eyes

“You do  _see him_ looking at you like that, right? He knows I’m your date and  _your boyfriend_ , doesn’t he?” Clearly frustrated, Jughead is muttering into Betty’s ear over the band playing at Archie and Veronica’s wedding reception. Across the dance floor is an obnoxiously drunk Reggie Mantle, waggling his eyebrows at Betty and staring much too hard at his girlfriend’s legs for Jughead’s taste. 

Betty just laughs it off, feeling light and happy from sipping at her third glass of champagne. “Jug, Reggie has been hitting on anyone in a skirt since the seventh grade. You have nothing to worry about.” Still, Jughead places a hand on Betty’s chiffon-clad thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb. It’s possessive and chauvinistic and he simply can’t care. 

Giggling, Betty stops his hand from creeping any higher up her leg. She absolutely  _wants_ it higher, but Betty bought a navy lingerie set just for this occasion and she’d rather Jughead see it for the first time in complete privacy. 

“You didn’t hear me complaining when all of Veronica’s sorority sisters were hitting on you at the rehearsal dinner last night.” 

Jughead snorts a laugh. “Betty that’s because you’re ten times as beautiful as any of Veronica’s insane college friends. I’m not an idiot, I know Reggie could bench press you  _and_ me at the same time.” 

With an affectionate sigh, Betty downs the rest of her champagne and spins in her chair so she’s facing the table and her lap is hidden. She picks up his hand and slides it under her skirt, until his fingers skim the ribbons of her garter belt. “Screw bench pressing.” she whispers seductively. “I’m much more interested in what you can do with your hands.” 


	14. policy amendments

_Meet me at the Blue & Gold! _

Jughead is a little surprised when the text from Betty comes through–they’d finished the layouts that morning and he saw her just before Vixens practice started but he’s still at school, trying to help Sweet Pea with his essay on  _The Grapes of Wrath_. 

All day, Betty was relatively …snuggly. He’s not one to complain, but Jughead and Betty have never been too keen on PDA so it caught him off guard when she curled up next to him on the student lounge loveseat during lunch, held his hand between every class, and gave him a lingering kiss before dashing into the girls’ locker room. 

So, no he’s not complaining that his normally-reserved girlfriend is in a publicly loving mood today. And he’s  _definitely_ not complaining when he does walk into the Blue & Gold office and is immediately pushed against the closed door behind him, Betty slipping her tongue in his mouth and sliding her small hands under the hem of his flannel and sleeveless undershirt. 

He enthusiastically responds in kind, gripping under Betty’s practice shorts and lifting her by the back of her thighs, before he walks them over to the desk and deposits her there to kiss down the column of her neck. Jughead fits perfectly between her legs and she crosses her ankles behind his hips, pressing her little white cheer sneakers into his lower back. 

Jughead emits a strangled groan when Betty starts to reach for his belt, but gently redirects her hands by lacing his fingers through her own. He’s still kissing her thoroughly, but eventually slows their pace until they’re both smiling into each other’s lips. 

“So, Betts,” smirks Jug, smoothing some loose tendrils of hair behind her ear. “As much as I’m enjoying your new policy on making out at school, what’s brought this on?” 

She flushes, ducking her face into Jughead’s chest and mumbling something incoherent. Betty squeezes her legs around his waist tighter and it takes every ounce of restraint to untangle himself from his beautiful, turned-on girlfriend. 

“What was that?” he teases. 

Betty bites her lip, still not meeting his eye. “You’re not wearing a tshirt with your flannel today,” she whispers with embarrassment. “You look really good.” 

Jughead coughs slightly in shock. “Really, the shitty white undershirt does it for you?” 

Face still flaming, Betty rolls her eyes at her oblivious boyfriend. “All of you does it for me, Juggie,” she says before laying another heady kiss on his lips and winding her hands into his hair. “But for the record, yes, I’m somewhat partial to the tank instead of the tshirt with your flannels.” 

They stare each other down intensely before throwing caution to the wind and continuing to make out on the desk, in plain view of the window pane. (Sweet Pea eventually comes looking for Jughead but turns around the moment he realizes that Jones’ hands are up Cooper’s shirt and her hands are on his ass.) 


	15. rocky road and strawberry sorbet

Working as an ice cream scooper over the summer at Pop Tate’s Chock’lit Shoppe was a Riverdale rite of passage. Or, it had been until the neighboring city of Greendale opened an outlet mall during the spring of Betty Cooper’s junior year of high school. After that, the rotating cast of teens in retro waitress and soda jerk uniforms was drastically reduced in favor of Sambercrombie or Veronica’s Secret employee discounts. 

 

Betty couldn’t complain all that much. It was infinitely easier to scoop cone after cone of cotton candy sherbert, or slice banana after banana for a sundae without stopping Reggie Mantle from eating all the candy toppings or begging Midge Klump to stop texting her boyfriend and bus tables. That being said, the shortened employee roster meant that Betty was constantly on shift. 

 

Also always on shift was Jughead Jones. 

 

It had been several years since Betty spent any significant amount of time with Jughead, drifting apart when Jughead’s family moved out of their house and into Sunnyside trailer park the summer after eighth grade. The move meant Jughead started high school over at Southside High instead of Riverdale High School with Betty and Archie Andrews, the three musketeers since the sandbox days. 

 

If Jughead remembered their time spent in Archie’s kitchen doing math homework (Betty) and playing video games (Archie and Jughead), biking down to Sweetwater River to swim by the rope swing on sunny weekends, or their countless nights of popcorn and slushies in the bed of Mr. Andrews’ truck at the drive-in, he gave no indication. 

 

Instead, Jughead moved around the back counter of Pop’s in complete silence, only acknowledging Betty’s existence when relaying flavor orders or muttering that he was going to take his break. 

 

If Betty was upset by this (she absolutely  _ was _ ), she did her best not to show it. They worked their shared shifts as companionably as they could when one member didn’t speak and one member was too polite to ask why. It was day after day of mumbled answers to “Pretty nice out today, huh?” or “The Andersons’ babysitter really shouldn’t let those hellions have any more sugar” or “Can you grab the extra buckets of Choco Surprise from the back?”

 

Betty tried her best not to take it too personally, but it stung regardless. She wasn’t used to people being immune to her charm. There usually wasn’t a single person that wouldn’t warm to her after a tightening of her ponytail and a wide smile. 

 

In all the silence, Betty had time to survey all the subtle changes in Jughead since the end of middle school. His hair was messier—though still covered by his worn beanie—and his frame lankier from growing an extra foot. He didn’t look like the scrawny kid in worn out sneakers and an oversized hand-me-down jacket anymore; he looked like he’s come into his own. Betty tried not to peer out the window when his Southside friends would show up on his break, the way he leaned oh-so-casually against his motorbike and threw back his head in laughter at whatever joke someone had cracked. 

 

(It definitely doesn’t bother her that a few summers before,  _ Betty  _ was someone who could make Jughead laugh like that. Not at all upsetting that the same Jughead who would team up with her throw water balloons at Archie now barely spoke more than five words in a row to her.) 

 

Betty also tried not to pay attention to the way her breath caught in her throat when Jughead passed behind her in the back of the cramped counter, or how it made her heart skip a beat when a lock of dark hair fell over his eyes when he leaned into the display freezer to scoop out the final dregs of a an ice cream bucket. 

 

Somehow, despite a grand total of twelve minutes talking to each other all summer, Betty has a crush on him. 

 

During their last shift of the summer, Jughead shocked her by initiating conversation while they mopped up after close. “I know what you’re doing,” he smirks. Betty stands stock still, face burning in embarrassment. What she  _ was  _ doing was appreciating the flex of Jughead’s back muscles while he wiped down one of the tables. 

 

“What do you mean?” She choked on the words, cursing herself for how squeaky her voice sounded. 

 

Jughead didn’t pause in his methodical cleaning as he continued to speak to her in a teasing tone. “I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking. I’m not blind, Cooper.” 

 

If there were a way to die of shame, Betty would be gone. Dead and buried. Rest in peace, Betty Cooper. Died how she lived, apparently not-so-slyly checking out Jughead Jones. And then melting into the floor. 

 

She opened and closed her mouth, unsure of how to respond. 

 

“You’re obviously trying to snake my scooping technique.” Jughead straightened and turned around to grin at Betty, looking appreciatively at the way her blush spreads from the neckline of her waitress dress and all the way to the tips of her ears. “I can stack a triple scoop like nobody’s business. All you had to do was ask for help.” 

 

“I—  _ scooping technique?”  _ Betty had no idea how to form words. Her education failed her. Her years of voracious reading left her with nothing. 

 

“It’s an art form.” Jughead’s smile did things to Betty’s stomach. She had no idea how to save face. It was their last shift, surely she can just turn on her heel and sprint away. The time between now and next summer’s opening would probably be enough for her to get over the deep embarrassment. “Cooper?” he asks. 

 

She managed to emit a quiet, “Yeah?” 

 

“Can I buy you a cone?” 


	16. vodka soda with lime

Going to the bar with Veronica is always a bad idea. Going to the bar with Veronica while she's on the rebound is an especially bad idea. 

 

Yet here Betty is, sitting alone at a high top in the pool room of a dingey bar and stabbing the leftover ice of her vodka soda with the flimsy cocktail straw. She managed an entire three sips of her drink before Veronica had locked eyes with some tall, dark, and handsome guy in leather and disappeared down a hallway with his hand in her back jeans pocket. 

 

She does not want to be here. Where she wants to be is curled up on her couch with a mug of tea and a book. It is incredibly tempting to leave, but her buddy system gut instinct tells her she absolutely should not leave Veronica alone until Veronica tells her it’s fine. (And knowing Veronica, who always means well but is flighty at best and clueless at worst, she will leave Betty at the bar in favor of the hot leather-clad man and forget to text Betty for several hours until their tryst is over.) 

 

But Betty is Betty, loyal and kind to a fault. So she’s fidgeting on the barstool and half paying attention to a game of pool between two guys—one very well built redhead who was very clearly a college jock and one dressed in flannel that hangs off his lanky frame with floppy hair that gives him a distinct heartthrob aura. 

 

They both look good. The redhead approaches her first, though. “Can I buy you another drink?” He seems nice enough, Betty thinks. She could probably stand to make polite conversation while waiting for Veronica. And she definitely needs another drink. So she puts on her best Cooper Smile, flutters her eyes, and says yes please. 

 

On the other side of the pool table, the guy rolls his eyes—clearly used to his friend leaving mid-conversation to flirt—and shrugs off the flannel to tie around his waist. While they both wait for the redhead to return, he moves around the pool table taking shots indiscriminately at the remaining balls, sinking every one. She’s slightly mesmerized by the muscles that were hidden under the boxy shirt. He’s just wearing a sleeveless undershirt now and he’s started to make eye contact with her before taking a shot. It’s making her feel warm under his gaze and realize she may have chosen the wrong friend in the pair to flirt with. 

 

The original flirt returns, with a pink drink that Betty feels like she should be offended by. She had clearly  _ not  _ been drinking a girly drink, but he’s got such a open smile that she feels like he’s just too sweet to know better. 

 

“I’m Archie,” he says. “You any good at pool? Want to play a game?” 

 

_ Oh this should be fun,  _ she thinks. Betty has nothing else to do; she’s out and wearing eyeliner and has a free drink while her friend is off getting lucky in the bathroom. She takes a large swig of her drink, suppressing a face at the syrupy sweetness, and says, “Can you teach me?” 

His friend snorts a laugh that he turns into a cough. There’s more than a good chance he’s caught on to her game. Betty feels a little bad that as Archie stands behind her to reposition her hold on the cue, she’s making eyes at his friend. Taking a long drag from his beer, he raises an eyebrow at her while his friend guides her through an opening shot. 

 

He has her holding it all wrong and she isn’t surprised when the striped six she’s aiming for ricochets so far away from the pocket it’s like she wasn’t even trying. “That’s okay,” Archie grins. “It’s a learning curve. 

 

“Tell you what,” simpers Betty. “If I make this next one, how about you buy all three of us shots?” 

 

Archie is such an easy mark, and now she does feel a little bad. 

 

Betty tightens her ponytail, leans over in a proper shooting pose—and maybe she angles herself a little extra so the lanky brunette has an eyeful of her low cut tank—sizes up the table, and shoots. Four balls go into separate pockets.

 

Archie gapes. Betty grins at him sheepishly before he heads to the bar to order shots. 

 

“That was impressive,” says the friend with a low whistle. “I haven’t seen anyone take him for a ride like that in, well, ever.” Betty shrugs. “I’m Jughead, by the way.” They shake hands and Betty feels an electric current run through her when their skin touches. 

 

When Archie returns with the shots, Betty and Jughead are too involved in their heated staring contest to acknowledge him in any way other than to pick up the shots. Betty is entranced by the slow drag of Jughead’s tongue across his bottom lip afterwards, cleaning up the remnants of tequila. 

 

She wants to bite that bottom lip. Really badly. Instead, she bites her own and cocks her head at him. 

 

“This was fun, boys,” Betty smiles. “I’m going to go touch up my lipstick and find my friend.” 

 

Betty wants Jughead to follow her. 

 

He does. 

 

(Veronica isn’t the only one who gets lucky in the bathroom that night.)     


	17. good enough for now

The first big fight they have after moving in together is about something insignificant. It’s been simmering under the surface for nearly two weeks, each of them too aware of the other in their space and beginning to think maybe there  _ is  _ too much of a good thing. Maybe they weren’t ready for this yet. 

 

It all boils over when Jughead comes home late from his bartending shift and trips over Betty’s heels left in the doorway, kicked off haphazardly the second she shuffled through the door from her  _ good enough for now  _ office job. 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles before kicking one of the shoes with such a force that it ricochets off the baseboard and clatters into the living room where Betty is dozing on the couch. That doesn’t wake her up. What  _ does  _ is the frustrated slamming of kitchen cabinets while Jughead is muttering under his breath and trying to make a sandwich in their cramped eating area. 

 

Betty sits and throws an irritated huff in his direction. “Thanks for keeping the noise down, Jug. Not like I was asleep or anything.” 

 

It only escalates from there. They yell about daily annoyances of living with each other that likely wouldn’t be an issue if the outside world wasn’t already beating down on them; if Jughead’s manuscript had been picked up by any of the first four agents he sent it to or if the magazine Betty was hired at didn’t go under before she could replenish her savings from the deposit on their new apartment, maybe they wouldn’t care that Jughead always makes the bed wrong in the morning or that Betty leaves her belongings in a trail from the door to the bed after coming home from work. 

 

If they were just  _ happier,  _ none of it would matter. 

 

But they’re not, so it does. 

 

Their fight comes to a draw the way most of them do: Jughead sighing that Betty deserves better than what he can give her and that he isn’t going to be her charity case before Betty, tears streaming down her face, tells him they’re never going to get anywhere if he doesn’t trust that he isn’t one of her projects.  

 

Maybe out of sheer exhaustion with replaying the same fight over and over, maybe out of spite, Betty takes it one step too far this time. “You know what,  _ fine Jughead.  _ You want me to prove to you that you’re not my project? Get out. I need to be alone right now and I paid the deposit and most of the rent here, so you can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.” 

 

She regrets it the moment the words leave her mouth, wishing she could snatch them back and swallow them the second she watches Jughead’s face fall. They  _ never  _ talk openly about the economic disparity between their families and getting Jughead to accept paying only thirty-percent of their shared rent was a huge discussion. 

 

The last thing Betty should be doing is throwing that in his face because she’s tired and he started yelling. 

 

“Juggie, no,  _ wait.”  _ Betty feels like she’s choking on air as Jughead slowly turns on his heel, picks up his backpack from the couch and starts throwing things in it. His laptop, the book he’s reading, his beanie off where it rests on their nightstand, two of his favorite flannels. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said that, you know I don’t mean it.” 

 

He doesn’t even slam the door when he leaves. Somehow it hurts even more that he closely it carefully and locks it behind him. 

 

The silence his absence leaves is deafening. 

 


	18. prettyboy eyes and heartthrob hair

College is a brand new experience for Jughead, in many ways. Starting fresh in a new place where nobody knows his tragic backstory unless he feels so inclined to share it—he doesn’t—means that there’s no sideways glances as his leather jacket (insignia free) or his ratty textbooks (secondhand, because who in god’s name will spent $149 on a book for intro psych), and that people will actually leave him alone if he’s off in a corner instead of coming up to harass him.

It’s a nice change.

One change he wasn’t expecting, though, was the girls. He’s still head over heels, puppy-eyed for Betty Cooper and nothing will change that. But he’d always thought Betty, out of the goodness of her heart, was fibbing when she complimented his looks. Jughead was always scrawny and wearing baggy clothes and wore a dumb hat—there’s no way anybody finds that attractive.

It appears he was wrong. Apparently the main deterrent at Riverdale High was simply that everybody already knew him as the emo loner who didn’t want to talk to anybody. At college, being an angsty kid who wasn’t all that interested in making friends doesn’t give off  _leave me the fuck alone_  vibes. It would appear it gives off _I’m mysterious and you should come find out why_ vibes.

Jughead was initially completely oblivious as to why so many girls from his classes suddenly wanted partner with him for projects or talk with him on his way out of class or stared at him from across the dining hall. He was never outright rude or mean to any of them, he just carried on in his usual sardonic ways. Which somehow made it worse.

“Juggie,” teases Betty on the phone when he mentions it offhand a few weeks into their respective semesters. “It’s because they think you’re  _cute_.” And then, with all the patience of somebody talking to a toddler, Elizabeth Cooper explains to Jughead Jones that he is in fact  _very_ attractive and lists out all the specific attributes that she and other girls appreciate.

She’s been going on for a while about his heartthrob hair and arm muscles—the screen of their video chat shows her flushing in the way that Jughead knows means she’s started to get turned on—when Jughead finally interrupts. “Not that it’s not seriously boosting my ego to hear all this, but you’re gonna have to stop that Betty or then I’m going to start listing out what I find attractive about you and then we’re both going to get worked up and I don’t think we quite have enough time right now to muddle our way through the mechanics of phone sex.”

Betty blushes even harder. Then she looks pensive for a moment. “Jug, you’re not …you’re not  _flirting back_ , are you?”

Jughead is bewildered.  _Of course_  he wouldn’t flirt back. The only conscious flirting he ever does is with  _her_  and if he’s being completely honest, he rarely even acknowledges the existence of any other girls.

But.

If he didn’t realize other girls were flirting with him in the first place…

Whoops.

“Why, Betts?” He’ll apologize for any accidental flirting in a moment, but he’s kind of interested in finally understanding what it’s like to be on the other side of this situation. Betty is Betty, so of course guys are constantly flirting with her. Jughead knows this and knows their relationship is secure, but it doesn’t always stop him from feeling the angry burn of jealousy low in his stomach. “Are you  _jealous_?”

“No.” Betty looks petulant. “I’m not— I’m not jealous. I love you and I trust you. But I mean…” There’s an adorable look of mild worry in her eyes as she trails off. “I’ve never had to think about other girls wanting you before. I’m not sure I know how to deal with that.”

It’s true, Jughead thinks. They’ve never had this particular uncharted path to handle. But all of them going to separate colleges is uncharted territory and they spent many, many hours talking through the pros and cons of long distance before saying goodbye to Riverdale at the end of summer.

“You know I’ve only got eyes for you, Betts. But if it will make you feel better, I can be a little more  _leave me alone_  guy in the corner than  _I’m so mysterious please come flirt with me_ guy in the corner.” Jughead puts on a pretentious drawl for the last part of his sentence, trying to mimic the sophomore in his fiction class who desperately seems to be trying for the casual indifference that comes so naturally to Jughead.

It makes Betty giggle. Which makes him smile.

“So,” she chirps. “Let’s circle back to those phone sex logistics, shall we?”


	19. should old acquaintance be forgot

A New Year’s Eve party is one of the last places on earth Jughead wants to be, let alone a New Year’s Eve party in Riverdale which he’s been begrudgingly dragged to by his childhood best friend. Not that Archie is really fulfilling _his_  end of the best friend duties, having promptly abandoned Jughead the moment they walked through the door.

Jughead has made it a point to avoid most, if not all, college breaks in Riverdale. He’ll get seasonal work and temp housing and pretty much do anything to avoid making the—admittedly short—drive from Syracuse to Riverdale in between semesters.

But it’s their junior year and Archie is about to spend his spring semester abroad in Spain and Archie is nothing if not spectacularly good at guilting Jughead into doing things that qualify as “Archie Fun” but fall nowhere near the camp of “Jughead Fun.”

Which is how he finds himself in Veronica Lodge’s penthouse on New Year’s Eve. He hasn’t seen Veronica, or really anybody from their graduating class, except Archie, since graduation, so the entire evening is one terrible trip down memory lane.

Jughead is bitterly reminiscing on the time Reggie Mantle clocked him in the face for making a crack at his spelling abilities when a flash of blonde and sparkles passes him, pauses, and then doubles back to stand squarely in front of him.

“Jughead freakin’ Jones, look who the cat dragged in!” He’s staring at Betty freakin’ Cooper, a vision in glittery silver, who looks so much like the Betty he’s known since kindergarten and yet so different, she’s nearly unrecognizable.

The wide smile, brilliant green eyes, and blonde ponytail are all still there. The ponytail in question is much looser, though, allowing tendrils to softly frame her face and highlight the sharp wings of eyeliner and ruby red lipstick. Her face is more relaxed, her curves softer, and her heels very clearly borrowed from Veronica based on the way she fidgets for her balance in them. She’s holding a plastic champagne flute in her hand and several chains of Mardi Gras beads hang around her neck.

This is Betty Cooper, all grown up.

Seeing her again makes every excruciating second spent back in Riverdale all worth it. “Hey, Betty,” he calls over the music. “Long time no see.” In mere seconds, every feeling he ever harbored for the girl in front of him—friendship, appreciation, enamorment, lust, loyalty,  _love_ —comes rushing back to him. The force of it nearly bowls him over.

“And whose fault is that, Forsythe?” Betty arches an eyebrow at him and tosses back whatever’s left in her flute. “You’re the one who skipped town after graduation without a backward glance or goodbye.”

If he weren’t so mesmerized, he’d flinch. Cutting ties with Betty, however unintentional, is still one of his deepest regrets. Even if he had never acted on his feelings, Betty Cooper was a force of nature in his young life, and he never meant to push her away.

So Jughead does what he does best, he deflects. “Oh we’re using full names, are we? How much have we had to drink,  _Elizabeth?_ ”

It’s so cute how she narrows her eyes at him, the determined glint may as well be a time machine. “Judging by your wallflower position, I’d say we haven’t had anything to drink. I, however, may have had a few shots with Kevin when we first got here.”

Falling back into conversation with Betty is as easy as breathing. She finds them two more colored flutes and they hide away in a quieter corner of the apartment, each of them barely touching the alcohol. Jughead will drink, sure, but he wants to remember every single moment of this reunion. And something tells him that Betty might be feeling the same way.

Instead of indulging in the glitz and drunken glamor of the party, the pair spends the rest of the evening filling each other in on time passed. Betty beams with pride when Jughead tells her he joined his school paper and is editor of the arts section, they sidetrack into a deep discussion of proto-feminism after realizing they both took a Jane Austen seminar, Jughead teases her for carrying her River Vixen habit over to her campus’s dance team, and it’s 11:59 before they know it and the whole party explodes with off-beat counting.

Betty grabs Jughead’s hand and drags them out into the fray to watch the enormous screen and count down. He won’t ignore the lick of electricity that runs up his arm when she doesn’t let go and instead places his hand squarely on her hip.

“Hey, Jug?” she whispers into his ear as the party rounds in on  _FIFTEEN_.

When he turns to look at her, she’s impossibly close.

“How do you feel about starting the new year off ri—”

Betty doesn’t get to finish because on the count of  _ELEVEN, TEN, NINE_ , Jughead uses the hand on her waist to pull her flush against him and press his mouth onto hers.

They don’t break for air until well after midnight has passed.


	20. flutterings

It’s sheer chaos when Betty walks through the door after work. An episode of Paw Patrol is loudly blaring on the TV to no audience, there’s smudged hand prints in varying shades of finger paint on the walls, and when a very affronted Hot Dog trots past her, there’s flour in his shaggy coat.

“ _Jug!_ ” She’s yelling half in annoyance, half in laughter; in all likelihood, she’ll probably never tire of watching this insanity unfold.

Jughead’s response comes in a muffled call back from what she assumes is the back pantry. “I swear it won’t happen again!”

It being letting Juniper and Dagwood, well past their Terrible Two’s but firmly in Infuriating Fours, convince him to bake while Aunt Betty is at work. Aunt Betty has to be the boring, strict aunt—very Alice of her, she thinks bitterly—but what else can you do when your sister has gone on  _a retreat_ with her husband and unceremoniously dumped her twin toddlers on you for the summer right after you graduate college?   

Well, theoretically, you could be Jughead. Jughead who is still hunting for a day job but pulling in enough freelance gigs that he can stay home and be the fun uncle during the day while Betty finishes out her copyediting gig from the semester at the local paper. Jughead who, a sucker for sweets himself, has been convinced to “bake” several times already in the two weeks they’ve been watching the twins.

Jughead who has burnt every single batch of boxed brownies he’s tried to make in his entire life.

The latest confectionary massacre is sitting on the messy kitchen counter of their condo. Betty would be annoyed if it weren’t so damn endearing.

(Initially, she’d been terrified to tell Jughead about their summer as de facto parents. Polly had hinted she may need babysitting help but she didn’t revela her true ask until the evening before she dropped them off. It wasn’t until after he came home his face lit up at the sight of the twins in their entryway that Betty’s fears melted away, remembering how devoted he is to his younger sister. He immediately instigated a rousing game of freeze tag while Betty argued in fierce whispers with Polly.)

She finds her partner where she thought he’d be: huddled on the floor of the walk-in pantry with a pair of very tired red-haired children slumped against him. Something insight her flutters without abandon.

(One day, those will be _their_ kids. It makes Betty unbearably excited for the future.)

“Jug,” she sighs. “You can’t keep doing this! We’ll never survive this summer if you explode the kitchen on their behalf.”

Jughead just grins at her and pops an Oreo into his mouth, pulling another out of the open package on the floor and offering it to Betty. With a roll of her eyes, she situates herself criss-cross applesauce on the floor and strokes Juniper’s red pigtails before taking the cookie.

She’ll probably need to institute some kitchen rules.


	21. freudian slip

“Oh my  _god_ , I could kiss you right now!”

The words are out of Jughead’s mouth before he can stop them. It’s just one of those facts in his life: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Jughead wants to kiss Betty Cooper. He just is usually much, much better at keeping that under wraps.

But some days she does something a little extra  _Betty_  that just makes him forget his life. Usually it’s when she makes an intelligent comment about Hemingway’s writing style, or rescues him from a perilous situation wherein Archie is about to make him listen to a new song, or gives him the rest of her fries at Pop’s.

Today it’s the extra-large coffee—also from Pop’s—that she delivers to him on the main desk of the Blue & Gold. She cannot possibly know that he spent a sleepless night in the storage closet in the secluded back hall of Riverdale High, his usual safe haven when the janitorial staff doesn’t decide to do overnight floor polishing with an aggressively loud machine.

He didn’t sleep and he feels like absolute shit.

So Jughead’s filter isn’t functioning at max capacity and he’s firmly blaming the Freudian slip on that. Definitely not on the actually feelings of love he has for one kind-hearted Elizabeth Cooper who just unknowingly made his day about eight thousand times better. (He’s fairly certain if he gets caught sleeping in class again, the guidance office is going to be on his case and the last thing needs is somebody asking too many questions about his home situation.)

What Jughead isn’t expecting the pink blush creeping its way up Betty’s cheeks at his accidental admission. He’s stammering, desperately trying to backtrack, when she surprises him by leaning forward on her tiptoes and pressing a light kiss against his cheek.

This time, Jughead is the one blush. 


	22. I could travel both

“Betty, please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

Betty fixes him with a look that would kill a lesser man. Jughead likes to think he’s grown somewhat immune to his wife’s intimidation tactics but if he’s being honest, she could probably still kill him with one glare.

(And what a way to die, at the hands of the inimitable Betty Cooper-Jones.)

Time to switch tactics.

“Come on, Betts, you know you wanna let me.” He tries for an eyebrow quirk that’s supposed to be charming but judging by the guffaw of laughter she lets out, he’s failed miserably.

“No, Jug, I actually don’t think I want to let you steal any of the cupcakes I just spent hours baking for the hoard of six-year-olds that will be taking over our home tomorrow. Because if I let you have one, then you’ll actually eat at least four and the last thing I want is a meltdown in the middle of Mia’s party because we ran out of cupcakes.” Over the course of her scolding, Jughead hops down from his perch on the kitchen counter to circle his arms around her as she finishes washing the dishes.

Betty giggles when he leans down to pepper kisses against the nape of her neck. “Pretty, pretty please, babe?”

He can practically hear the roll of her eyes at that one. In a surprise move, Betty twists in his arms and flicks suds at him before breaking free. “If you touch those cupcakes before that party, you’re in for it, Mr. Cooper-Jones.”

“Killjoy,” he mutters, throwing an exaggerated pout in her direction.

“You’re very cute when you pout, Juggie, but you still can’t have a cupcake.” His beautiful, smart, currently-very-cruel wife disappears up the stairs and Jughead is left to contemplate whether the brief joy of a freshly baked red velvet cupcake is worth the wrath of Betty.

As though he had shouted the thought out loud, Betty returns. “You know, Jug, you can continue to stare at those for another twenty minutes or you can come join me in the shower. Your choice!” she chirps with a devilish smile.

Jughead chooses both—Betty won’t be too mad at him after the things he’s about to do to her.


	23. new histories

Betty wakes up to a distinct thumping sound at the front door. Then what sounds like a kick and a muffled  _ow_. She clicks the home button on her phone and sees that it’s well past midnight.

The thump comes again.

Bleary-eyed and relatively annoyed, Betty shuffles to the door, checks the peephole, and then slides open the deadbolt with a small chuckle. The door swings open to reveal her somewhat disheveled boyfriend.

“Jug?” she asks, suppressing a yawn. “I thought you weren’t coming home tonight? That’s why I deadbolted the door.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I was going to stay with the rest of the douche-bro bachelor gang but I missed you so here I am.” Jughead is grinning in a relaxed manner but his words are a mumbled mess.

“Juggie,” Betty grins, ushering him inside. “Are you  _drunk_?”

“No!” His response is immediate and defensive until Betty raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, maybe. Archie kept pulling the  _you’re my best man_  card and I’ve made it twenty-seven years resisting peer pressure but a pouting, tipsy Archibald got the best of me.”

It’s not that Jughead isn’t a drinker. He’ll have a couple of beers if they’re out with friends, enjoy a glass of wine over dinner with Betty, take a sip or two of an absurd frozen cocktail if Betty insists, but he doesn’t party-drink. He avoids liquor religiously and is very careful to never have more than five drinks in an outing. He never wanted to be the guy who was so scared off of alcohol by his alcoholic parent that he became a sheltered loner—he’s still a loner, but a loner who can appreciate a good malbec or IPA and isn’t afraid to enjoy a quiet alcohol buzz. But Jughead never went to any of the keggers Archie invited him to (for many reasons), never understand the uniquely college student drive to drink just get to drunk, and most certainly never took tequila shots.

Until tonight, apparently.  

When Betty closes the door behind them, checking both locks, Jughead comes up behind her to circle his arms around her waist and breathe in deeply. “It’s no fun doing any of this dumb wedding socializing without you,” he mumbles into her hair. “When it’s us, we need to have a joint party or I’ll just mope the entire night.”

She giggles. They’ve talked about this before, them getting married. They are as confident as ever in their relationship and know that they are both willing to take the traditional next step of swearing it in front of god or a judge or whoever. But it still gives Betty butterflies to talk about it so casually.

“Okay, mister, we can debate the logistics of our future bachelor-bachelorette parties in the morning. For now, let’s get you out of these clothes and into bed.”

A sly grin appears on Jughead’s face. “Betts,” he starts, very seriously. “Are you trying to  _seduce me_? Do you want to get into my pants?”

All she gives him in response is a derisive snort. “Not like this, I don’t. There’s no point in seducing you when you’re this cocky—oh for god’s sake, Jug, are you twelve?!” His face lights up at her saying the word cocky and he unsuccessfully tries to waggle his eyebrows in a seductive manner. “You’re an idiot,” Betty sighs affectionately.

“It’s true,” he responds, plopping down in the middle of their kitchen so as to better reach the laces of his shoes. “But I’m your idiot and you’re stuck with me.” Betty watches him struggle with the knots for a few moments before taking pity and crouching down next to him.

“Here, Jug, let me.” She quickly unties both shoes and slips them off his feet.

“You’re magic,” Jughead breathes in awe. “ _I love you_.”

“Just one of my many talents. And I love you too. Now let’s get to bed before you take a nap in the kitchen.”

Betty gently guides him up from the floor and, once she laughs off two more crass jokes while she’s helping him out of his jeans, slides into bed with Jughead tucked closely behind her.

“You’re kind of a fun drunk,” she whispers into the quiet of their dark bedroom.

Jughead mumbles back, “Better than the other kind,” and it makes her heart ache a little bit.

“You are not your father, Jughead Jones. Don’t you ever forget that.” This time, all Betty gets in response is a light snore. It’s probably better off that way. She nestles closer, breathing in the scent of him. She’ll remind him in the morning.


	24. Chapter 24

“Jug! Jughead, hey!” Jughead yanks the hem of his beanie lower to cover his ears. Whatever—or whoever—it is, he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

(The last time he turned around at the call of his name walking home from the bus stop, Chuck Clayton had thrown his copy of The Phantom Tollbooth into a muddy puddle. Jughead had been too embarrassed to ask Mrs. Sanders for another copy and, while he had a whole $6 saved from couch cushions and returned soda and beer cans, he wanted to save it to buy Jellybean new markers. So he’d painstakingly used his mom’s hairdryer to dry out the soaked pages, resulting in running ink and blurred sentences.)

“Ju-uug!” The person behind him catches up and firmly pokes him in the back. He turns and is greeted by Betty Cooper’s toothy grin and blonde pigtails. She’s breathless—in a cute way, Jughead can’t help but think—as she asks, “Didn’t you hear me calling you, Juggie?”

There’s no way he’s admitting he ignored her on purpose. The last thing Jughead wants to do is hurt Betty Cooper’s feelings. He also doesn’t want to lie to her; he’ll lie a lot—about whether he’s hungry, why his parents didn’t sign his field trip permission slip—but somehow Jughead just cannot bring himself to lie to Betty.

Maybe it’s the earnest look in her green eyes, or how her sweaters are always clean and neatly pressed, or when he can tell she’s reading ahead in class, or the way she bites her lip when she’s waiting for answer. The way she is right now.

“Sorry Betty,” he mumbles. “Guess I was distracted. Sometimes you have to literally poke me to get my attention.” Jughead grins at her in apology. It’s not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie. The perfect kind of gray area Jughead spends most of his time in.

“That’s okay,” chirps Betty. “I wanted to see if you would work on the history project with me since Mrs. Sanders said we were allowed to work in groups.”

Something compels him to fidget with his beanie again, glancing at the ground so Betty can’t see that there’s a blush rising on his cheeks. “That sounds great, Betts.” 


	25. oh my god they were neighbors

It’s hot. Like,  _ungodly_ hot.

This, Jughead reminds himself, is why you don’t fucking move apartments in the middle of summer. And yet here he is, lugging box after box from the bed of his shitty, hand-me-down pickup and drenched in sweat from the mid-August humidity.

He’s swearing loudly to himself when he catches a glimpse of a mildly amused blonde woman, another—this one mildly horrified—blonde woman who looked like her sister, and a pair of young kids with fiery red hair.

Whoops. That’s certainly one way to make a first impression on your neighbors. Jughead continues to grumble, under his breath, as he wrestles with a bag that’s stuck on something. It breaks free in a split second, the force of his tug resulting in Jughead landing squarely on his ass on the sidewalk.

“ _Motherfu_ —” One of the redheaded kids appears in his periphery and he swallows the curse.

(Jughead knows not all redheads actually look alike, but he swears that the little girl could be Archie’s. He mentally suppresses a shudder at the thought of his serial dater of a best friend procreating. Archie needs a solid ten years to mature because there’s miniatures of him walking the earth.)

“What’s with the boxes?” The girl’s voice is almost like a chirp and she seems so genuinely curious that Jughead actually cracks a smile. He remembers those days of endless curiosity from when his own sister was growing up. There wasn’t a day that went by without Jellybean asking him some inane question like  _why are lizards green_ or  _why do they call them french fries_ or  _how come dad’s soda smell different from ours?_

Smiling, Jughead answers in a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m going to build a fort inside.”

The look of delight on her face falters slightly when the now definitely horrified woman calls out, “Junie, we don’t talk to strangers. Come back over here!” Jughead tries to wave a hand in hello but the mother just sends him a glare. With a sigh, displeased that he’s already pissed off a new neighbor, Jughead pulls himself back to his feet.

Once he’s upright, the other woman is right next to him. Her eyes bear the same kind of sparkling curiosity as the little girl’s. It’s endlessly endearing.

“Hi,” she says. “Don’t mind my sister, she’s a little worried that one of those two is going to walk right into a kidnapper’s lair without a backwards glance.”

He smirks in response and the mirroring smile from her makes Jughead wish he weren’t dripping in sweat and wearing his grimiest t-shirt. Even though it’s hot as balls outside and she’s clearly been walking in the heat, she doesn’t have a drop of sweat on her face. Jughead feels like a goddamn troll compared to her in her patterned shorts and tank top.

“Moving in, I assume?” It’s very easy to be distracted by the movements of her lips, painted a soft pink by lipstick. “I haven’t seen you around the building before.”

Oh.  _Oh._ She’s the one who lives here, not the mother of rambunctious, kidnapper-friendly twins. That’s a nice surprise.

“Uh, yeah. Moving in.” Jughead runs a hand through his hair, praying he succeeds in trapping it flat and not standing it on end. “Sorry, heat’s getting to me. I’m a little slow today.”

“It’s a rough one,” she smiles. “Why don’t you take a break and come in? I promised freeze pops to my niece and nephew and I bet you could use one too.”

That sounds like an  _excellent_ plan.


	26. attention to detail

Jughead feels really, really badly when he trudges up to the reference desk. Again. For the fifth time that morning. If he were one to believe in the supernatural, he’d say the microfilms in the library basement were cursed. But he’s not and Jughead Jones is just prone to shit luck.

It was shit luck to begin with that he dug himself into such a research black hole to the point where he had to resign himself to exchanging the comfortable cocoon of his studio apartment for a dimly lit, nearly-abandoned corner of the Syracuse University library. If he’d thought hunching over his laptop was enough to put a crick in his neck, it’s nothing compared to the stiffness developed after peering through a microfilm reader for hours on end.

(This is what he gets for wanting to authentically mirror the style of 40s-era crime reporting for the miniscule section of his work-in-progress novel where the protagonist finds an old newspaper article pertaining to the original crime the villain du jour is copycatting.)

“You did this to yourself,” Sweet Pea, his MFA writing partner and current roommate, reminds him when Jughead swears loudly as the machine’s bulb flickers out once again. He’s lounging across two chairs, keeping Jughead company in the dark room, splitting his time between copyediting his novella and throwing pens at Jughead.

“We can’t all get away with blaming inaccuracies on magical realism, you asshole.”

There  _is_ one benefit to the microfilm reader breaking so often: the reference librarian on shift is, undeniably and distractingly, beautiful.

 She twirls the ends of her blonde ponytail through her fingers while chewing on the ends of her pens and marking up printed copies of what Jughead assumes are her assignments. Despite the fact that Jughead keeps breaking what she’d jokingly called her  _dinosaur of a baby_ , Betty (according to the TODAY YOUR LIBRARIAN IS whiteboard at the counter) has been nothing short of polite and charming each time she comes over to fix whatever he’s messed up.

But on the fifth trip, Jughead can’t help but think she’s going to be annoyed. Once or twice or a couple times is passable, but he knows he would certainly be pissed off if one of the many undergrads that he TAs for came back to ask the same question that many times in one day.

Betty surprises him by looking up with a grin when he clears his throat in from of the desk and raps his knuckles against the wood.

Maybe it’s the hours spent in the basement but Jughead _really_  wants her to like him. So much so that he’s doing ridiculous things like fake-knocking on a nonexistent door to soften the blow of needing her help again. Or reverting to the nervous tick of his youth and rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Again?” she asks with a laugh.

His apology comes out in a weak voice that cracks a little like he’s sixteen-year-old with an unmanageable crush.

“Don’t worry about it,” Betty chirps, coming out from behind the desk and brushing past him with a swish of her ponytail and a swing of the flouncy skirt she’s wearing that Jughead is pretty sure is printed with bumblebees. It’s endearing and he tries hard to not stare at her lean legs as he follows behind.

He fails only in that he ends up staring at her ass instead. Sweet Pea definitely catches him in the act and snorts.

“You know,” Betty starts a she crouches behind the table the machine sits on. “If I didn’t know how finicky this thing is, I’d think you were doing this on purpose.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” The gleam in Sweet Pea’s eyes can mean nothing good and Jughead closes his eyes in silent prayer that he doesn’t say anything completely embarrassing. “If Jughead here were actively trying to hit on you, it would not be anything nearly as smooth as this.”

So much for that. “Oh, go back upstairs and read about faeries or something, Sweets.”

The microfilm reader whirs back to life and when Betty stands up, her cheeks are tinged with pink. With a smirk and hands raised in mock surrender, Sweet Pea exits the room, leaving Jughead with an equally red face, if the burn he feels is any indication. But she’s still in the room, shyly meeting his eyes, so that has to mean something.

“That, uh,” Jughead stammers. “That’s not to say I  _wouldn’t_ try to hit on you. I would just be even worse at it than I am at reading microfiche.”

The resulting giggle is something Jughead wants to hear for the rest of his life. “Wow, you must be pretty terrible at flirting then because you’re godawful with this machine.”

Some of the tension eases and they spend a few minutes chatting amicably, Jughead explaining the roundabout way he ended up in the records room to begin with and Betty comforting him by saying the first month she learned to use the reader, it shut off on her at least three times a day. When she suggests a few specific newspapers and years to dig into for crime reporting references, Jughead nearly gets down on one knee.

By the time Betty glances at her watch and says she should get back to the front, Jughead couldn’t care less about his research. He’d much rather spend time researching the woman sitting in front of him; how she takes her coffee, what other quirky printed clothing she owns, if she could get library science credits for fact-checking his work, what her chapstick tastes like, how her body might feel under his.

“Wait,” Jughead calls, as Betty’s halfway to the door. “I’m basically done for the day. If I hunch here for any longer you’ll have to call me Quasimodo. Let me pack up and walk you out?”

She blushes again and this time it spreads across the pale skin of her chest. Jughead’s heart soars when she pauses to wait for him, and there’s about a million other terrible metaphors for being in love that run through his mind.

After Betty resumes her position behind the desk, Jughead leans up against it while he awkwardly considers his next move.

“When’s your next shift, Betty?”

“Wednesday morning.”

Her eyes are so, so green. It’s nearly hypnotic.

“Here,” he says, choking on his on nerves. He rips a piece of paper out of a notebook and scribbles down his number. “Let me know what you like in your coffee and I’ll see you Wednesday morning.”


	27. with this ring

They’re eating a dinner of pizza, spaghetti, and burgers—Jughead—and leftover chicken picatta—Betty—when she first notices it. 

 

“Hey, Jug?”

 

He mumbles his acknowledgement. 

 

“Did you go elope without me or something,” she teases, nodding toward his left hand where a wedding band in rose gold sits as though they’d woken up nine months into the future already having said their vows and exchanged  _ I do’ _ s. 

 

“Oh yeah!” Jughead’s eyes light up. He grasps her left hand in his own and Betty can’t help but feel totally, sickeningly head over heels at the image of their laced fingers with rings side by side. “I thought it was kind of dumb that you’re the only one who gets to wear the symbol of being officially off the market. So I got an engagement ring for myself.” 

 

He chews the rest of his pizza nonchalantly as though he hadn’t just dropped the most endearing and thoughtful action on her in the middle of a Tuesday night. At her silence, Jughead looks up to see Betty’s piccata-filled fork frozen in midair. Her eyes are full of unshed tears as she drops her fork, removes Jughead’s slice from his right hand, and flings herself into his lap. 

 

“I love you so goddamn much, Jughead Jones.” 

 

They stay that way for ages, Betty koala’d onto Jughead’s relaxed form and revelling in the feel of his ring against her hand. 

 

“Betts, honey,” he starts. “I love that you love my completely logical choice to get my wedding band early, but I also love pizza and burgers and you are blocking my path to those right now.” 

 

She pulls back to make a disgruntled face. 

 

“Fiiiine. I’ll move, but only if we can send photos to Archie because you know Veronica is gonna do her crazy high pitched thing when she thinks we eloped.”  


	28. sunset in a cup

Summers in Riverdale are forever changed; the bubble burst in the town with pep the moment Clifford Blossom held a gun to his son’s head and the pulled the trigger and neither Betty nor Jughead are quite sure why either of them expected the summer following Archie’s arrest would be anything like the carefree summer they longed for. 

 

School lets out mere days after Archie is led away in handcuffs and, immediately after, Jughead is swamped in understanding just what the ubiquitous title of  _ Serpent King  _ actually means, Betty makes a last minute choice to put her sanity first by taking a legal internship in Boston. 

 

Spending the entire summer apart after their respective lives  _ finally  _ settled down—Archie’s impending criminal trial notwithstanding—was not something they wanted to give into. But they each knew it was likely for the best, for each of them to follow their paths as needed. 

 

The summer held itself together with constant text messaging, video chats every other day, and nightly goodnight calls, and whispered  _ I love you’ _ s in the still of quiet bedrooms. 

 

It didn’t stop Betty from launching herself out of the cab from the airport and directly into Jughead’s waiting arms when she finally arrived back in Riverdale. Bags forgotten on the ground and ponytail askew, Betty leapt into his embrace without a care toward their audience. 

 

(The exasperated cabbie waiting to be paid, teenage Serpents snickering as they kick the gravel around their bikes, a happier Cheryl Blossom than Betty has seen in her entire life who rolls her eyes to hide her wide smile in their direction.)

 

“God I missed you, Betts,” swears Jughead into the skin of her neck. She’s wearing a perfume of something citrus mixed with floral and he wishes he could drown in it. They awkwardly shuffled back toward the taxi, Betty’s legs still wrapped around his waist as she desperately clings to him as though he’s her true north. 

 

In a way, he always has been. 

.

.

.   

They fuck on every surface they land on in the Cooper house, Alice gone on her extended retreat at The Farm, and Betty more than willing to defile every single memory of her childhood home whose integrity was already burned to the ground. 

 

Each bad memory is wiped away by every swipe of Jughead’s tongue on her skin, every unrestrained moan, each thrust of their hips, every ounce of pleasure they draw from each other. They lose themselves in the hurricane of emotions that stills to a gentle storm when they eventually rest wrapped in each other, under the safety of Betty’s soft pink quilt. 

“Long distance is bullshit,” Betty murmurs. She runs the pads of her fingertips up and down the healed scars across Jughead’s body, remembrances of the tolls he’s paid. “All of this is bullshit.” 

 

“Stop that,” he admonishes. “I know, I know. Everything is …a mess. But let’s give ourselves this one weekend before we let the vultures swoop in and destroy it all.” 

 

And so they do: making dinner in the large, untouched Cooper kitchen; driving down the back roads around the edge of Sweetwater River on Jug’s motorcycle; sunbathing on the river’s edge, with breaks to cannonball into the water and splash each other until they’re laughing so hard they can’t breathe, stopping only so they can kiss passionately under the blue sky; bottomless milkshakes (on the house, despite their many protests) in their usual booth at Pop’s. 

 

There’s no discussion of Serpent duties or murderous fathers or incarcerated best friends. The world will still be there for them on the other side of the weekend, clawing through the bars in an effort to drag them down that much sooner. 

 

For once, they don’t let it. 


	29. liquid courage

Jughead has never been one to drink heavily—sons of alcoholic fathers learn not to pick up their vices—but he enjoys a good craft beer and knows himself well enough to never let that enjoyment go too far.

Every once in a while, he’ll have a drink.

He’ll have a little bit more to drink than he should if his best friend just tied the knot and he, as the best man, had just given a speech at the reception. The reception of approximately twenty people Jughead knows and then two hundred and eighty of nobody’s closest friends.

Veronica Cecilia Lodge, Jughead’s new de facto sister in law, may be a former society girl, but there’s nothing former society about her family. In this instance, everybody lost.

In the instance of the top shelf open bar, though, everybody won.

He is maybe also drinking because Betty Cooper looks unfairly gorgeous in her royal blue maid of honor dress and if he has to spend one more waking minute keeping how he feels to himself, he may explode.

Liquid courage, as it were.

The masses are a moving blur on the dance floor as the reception bears on; appetizers are consumed, bottles of actually-from-Champagne champagne are finished, the bridal party’s shoes come off, and Jughead watches it all unfold with an intense curiosity

Betty is twirling around barefoot with one of the flower girls and he just cannot tear his eyes off her.

(It’s been a whirlwind three years since Archie and Veronica met and fell in love and Jughead only tolerated their sickening displays of affection because their relationship, apart from making Archie the happiest he’s ever been, brought Betty into his world. Whip-smart, talented, charming, beautiful Betty Cooper who stole his heart the moment she burst into Veronica’s apartment, late to the couple’s lunch to announce their engagement, grumbling about the Oxford comma.)

Jughead Jones isn’t a joiner or a public speaker or a dancer, but damn if Betty doesn’t make him want to be all of that. He doesn’t have to get up from his seat, though, because she collapses into the chair beside him as the song changes.

“Hey there, wallflower,” she grins, face flushed from the drinks and dancing. “You’re not even going to join for the macarena? I requested it special for you.”

“Ah, Cooper, fatal mistake. You should know by now that I dance the electric slide, and the electric slide only.”

His three beers must have him more lax about hiding his appreciation of Betty’s physical appearance, because he swears he only let his eyes fall to her chest for a second when he hears a teasing, “Eyes up, sailor.”

Betty is incredibly close to him when he does look up. He can see the fly-away hairs coming loose from her intricate braid and the slight red wine stain over her signature pale pink lipstick and the new blush rising up her neck to high on her cheeks. As she gulps from a glass of water, his gaze drops again to track the bob of her throat, the heavy breathing of her breast bone, and just in time to see the delicate strap of her black bra slip down her arm.

Without even blinking, he reaches out to fix it for her.

Her skin is warm under his touch and, unless he’s hallucinating, she shivers ever so slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, quickly retracting his hand.

The whispered, “Don’t be,” in response has Jughead hoping for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He is not at all prepared for this. He reaches for his own glass of water and tugs fruitlessly at his already loosened tie.

“Let’s go get some air,” suggests Betty, standing up and tugging him with her before he even has a chance to respond.

Out in the hallway of the literal castle, the comparative silence gives the effect of having cotton stuffed in his ears and Jughead almost doesn’t hear Betty when she calls his name. She’s stopped several feet behind him, at the entry to the coat closet. On leaden limbs, Jughead backtracks until he’s facing her and once again, she’s pulling on his hand, taking them further into the small alcove.

“What are we doing in the coat closet, Cooper?”

In the smallest, quietest part of his brain, Jughead knows—it’s just the other ninety-eight percent of his mind shouting over it and making him question everything.

There’s only the glow from the hall lights falling into the room, so Jughead has to squint to make out her form in the dark.

“We’re in the coat closet, Jones, because there’s something you want to tell me and something I want to do and I have finally had enough thousand-dollar champagne to feel confident enough to do this.”

The quiet corner of Jughead’s brain erupts in cheers.

Her hand falls flat against his chest and his entire body gives into her touch. “Which of us is going to go first, then?” Through the shadows, he can just make out a grin before the hand on his chest pushes him slightly until his back is against a wall of coats.

And then Jughead discovers he likes the taste of champagne because Betty Cooper’s mouth is on his, and nothing else in the goddamned world matters anymore. There’s a ferocity behind her movement that, after a few moments frozen in shock, Jughead returns in kind until his fingers are laced through her hair and her hands are plucking at the back of his dress shirt.

He wants so badly to let this feeling take over until clothes come off and he can whisper how much he loves her into her bare skin, but tipsy at their respective best friends’ wedding isn’t the time or place.

Betty must catch on to his thought process because her hands slide to cradle his face as her lips slow until they break apart. Breathing heavily and tucking loose locks of hair behind her ear, Jughead opens his mouth to do his part.

“Cooper, I really, really like y—”

“Hey, Jughead are you in— oh, hi, kids.” A light they didn’t know existed flips on in the small room, revealing a disheveled Jughead and a lipstick-smeared Betty to none other than Fred Andrews, whose eyebrows are so high on his forehead now they may as well have disappeared. “Archie and Veronica are looking for you guys, they’re about to cut the cake.”

Jughead lets his head fall back against the coats in a groan and Betty starts to giggle uncontrollably.

“Secret’s safe with me, but you’d better get out there before someone more gossipy comes along.”


	30. dancing in the dark

The glittery charm of Betty’s back to school dance dress wears off the moment Veronica Lodge shows up in Pop’s the night before junior year starts.

Her dress is a silky forest green, a departure from her usual pink, with a modest V-neck in the front and a deeper V cut into the back. She chose it specifically because it was so different and so un-Betty-like; the daring aspect of not being able to a regular bra and the tantalizing prospect of knowing someone’s hand—her  _date’s_ hand—would rest on her bare skin was merely a bonus.

They were, as they did for every dance since the eighth grade, going together as a group: her, Archie, and Jughead. Three Musketeers since the sandbox, their trio spends an inordinate amount of time together, though Betty and Jughead more so since Archie joined the football team and the two of them revived the old school paper together.

And for the majority of the time since the sandbox, Betty thought her destiny was to marry Archie. But lately, as Archie makes varsity and dates his way through the Vixens, she’s begun to reconsider her long-held crush. It doesn’t hurt any less, though, when Betty sees the way his eyes light up at the sight of Veronica in all her Manhattan glory.

(For as much as she’s talking herself down from her puppy-love for Archie, a small part of Betty still hopes that something would change Archie’s mind. Hence, the dress.)

“I think this is really it this time,” sighs Betty, slumping down her favorite desk chair in the  _Blue & Gold _office and tossing a crumpled sticky note at Jughead to get his attention.

“What’s it this time?” Jughead is sprawled across the worn out office couch, working his way through the most recent cover article with a green pen. He doesn’t look up and something about that niggles at the back of Betty’s mind.

They’re supposed to be best friends too, and Jughead has grown increasingly morose with her as of late.

“Archie and Veronica. I think he really likes her. It might actually last more than a month this time.” Even as she says it, Betty knows it’s the wrong thing to say. If Jughead is annoyed with her, bringing up her ever-present—though waning—feelings for Archie isn’t going to improve anything.

With a groan, Jughead sits up and fixes Betty with a pointed look. “Betts, look—”

Whatever it is he’s about to say, he doesn’t get the chance. Archie appears at the door of the office. “Hey guys!”

Jughead collapses back against the couch. Betty spins toward Archie in her chair.

“I know it’s last minute since the dance is, like, tomorrow. And I know we always do the group date thing, but Ronnie just asked if she and I could go together. Like  _together_ , together. Do you mind?”

Somehow, Betty’s heart doesn’t sink like she’s expecting. In fact, she feels …relieved.

“I think that’s great, Arch.” The excitement in her voice is enough that Archie looks a little surprised and even Jughead lifts his head to look at her. His eyes narrow a bit, but he remains silent. “She seems really nice and I can tell you like her. She’s welcome to come to Pop’s for the after dance shake, but don’t feel like you have to humor us.”

Archie is positively beaming and tells Betty that he’ll ask Veronica about the plans after. Something a little like hope bubbles in her chest when she turns to Jughead. “So it’s just us this time around! Maybe we can actually listen to good music on the drive over now.”

Stretching his lanky frame, Jughead gets up and rolls his neck a couple times before answering. He’s looking steadfastly at his loose shoelace that’s covered in mud from walking outside without re-tying it.    

“Actually, Betts, no offense but if Archie isn’t going to guilt me into showing up to this one, I’ll probably just stay home. I’m not exactly in the mood to spend my Friday night in the Riverdale High gym listening to shitty pop music and watching you sulk.”

The hope deflates as quickly as it had appeared and, more than she ever did after watching Archie go on a date, Betty wants to cry at the sight of Jughead’s retreating back as he shuts the door to the office firmly behind him.

*  
*  
*

Like always, Betty spends the afternoon of the dance decorating the gym. She’s moved up to the vice president of the dance committee now but the excitement of seeing the first dance she co-planned come to life has worn off.

Unlike always, Betty doesn’t change into her dress in the hour between returning home and waiting for Jughead—the first of them to have his driver’s license and easy access to his dad’s old truck—to pick her and Archie up.     

Instead, she changes into her comfiest pair of sweats, makes a pot of peppermint tea, and uses the fact that her parents are away at a journalism conference to marathon a trashy reality show that Alice would definitely disapprove of. It’s not what Betty planned, but she finds herself much more at peace than expected. The more she’s thought about it, though, the more upset she is by Jughead’s outburst earlier. No matter what has gone on in her life—Archie’s new dates, her mother’s poor reactions to any grade lower than an A, her sister dropping out of high school and eloping with Jason Blossom—Jughead has been there for her. It guts her that he could so easily insult her and walk away.

She deserved it, she supposes. For as much as Jughead is there for Betty, Betty knows she hasn’t been there for him as much. Not that Jughead ever shares enough about his life to let her or Archie support him.

(Then again, Betty doesn’t remember ever asking him. And it makes her feel two inches tall.)

This heavy guilt on a night when Betty believed she might finally make heads turn—Archie’s or anybody else’s for that matter—wasn’t exactly expected.     

The knock on her door, an hour past when the dance started, is also unexpected.

Jughead, even more so.

At some point since Betty walked home, it’s started raining. Jughead’s messy hair is plastered across his forehead and he’s wringing the water out of his beloved beanie, eyes fixed squarely on the ground. His presence in and of itself is a surprise to Betty.

The biggest surprise of all is that Jughead Jones is on her doorstep, soaked from the rain, and wearing a suit.

When he looks up, he still won’t meet her eye and instead stares somewhere just past Betty’s left ear. “So, uh. I’m an ass. And I knew I was an ass before Archie called to ream me out for bailing on you when he realized you weren’t going to the dance. But if Archie Andrews thinks you screwed up, then you  _really_ screwed up.”

Betty can’t bring herself to make eye contact either.

“It’s not just on you, Jug.” There’s more she should say but Betty isn’t quite sure she has the words.

They’re just two guilt-ridden teenagers staring at the floor. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.

“I know you probably bought a dress and everything for this and it shouldn’t go to waste. Wanna go to the dance with me?”

The next twenty minutes are a whirlwind; Betty half-tackles Jughead in a bear hug before running to her room to hastily put on fresh eyeliner and her dress, Jughead nearly swallows his tongue when he places a hand on her back to steady her while she bucklets the strap of her high heels and discovers how low the cut goes, and they make a mad dash from the Coopers’ front door to Mr. Jones’ shitty truck parked on the street.

With a smile on his face Betty’s never seen before, Jughead peels out of Elm Street at top speed. “Gotta rush! Can’t have the dance co-planner miss the whole thing,” he winks at her. Betty’s stomach flip flops.

And then the truck hydroplanes on the left turn, throwing them into the Masons’ fence and hydrangea trees. Betty shrieks, Jughead swears, and the sudden movement has them both clinging to each other while the truck spins out.

“Fuck, Betty, are you okay? I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?” Babbling, Jughead leaps out of the driver’s side and meets Betty at her door, frantically checking for injuries or cuts by running his hands quickly over her.

His hands are cradling her face when she stops him by kissing him square on the mouth. A few panicked seconds pass where Betty thinks she misread the situation, because Jughead is stunned into stillness and she’s feeling extremely stupid. Then his lips start to move under hers and he pulls her to him, lifting her out of the truck and into the downpour.

They spin in place a few times, Betty fighting the urge to wrap her legs around Jughead’s suit-clad hips and Jughead’s hands gripping tightly at her waist.

“Shit,” he swears into her mouth.

The heat of his breath against hers makes her dizzy. “ _I know,_ ” she whispers.

“No,” Jughead laughs. “Shit like I’m going to ruin your dress. Which you look incredible in, by the way.” To emphasize his point, he slips one hand under the fabric on her back.

Betty kisses him hard enough that her lips muffle the noise of surprise he makes. “Doesn’t matter, Jug.”


	31. say you'll remember me

Main Street was already Betty’s favorite place to spend her lunch break or a weekend afternoon—full of little boutiques, hardware and office supply stores, and the Café Au Lait, which her good friend Kevin manages. Then a used bookstore opened in the empty storefront right next door to the café and Betty was in literal heaven.

Instead of leisurely sipping at her coffee over her sandwich or pastry, she’s taken to chatting with Kevin while she eats quickly and then taking her daily cappuccino to go so she can browse among the stacks. The mixed scent of coffee, old paper, and the lingering pipe tobacco from the storefront’s former life is a calming break from Betty’s life at the local news station and her off-days spent wrangling her sister’s five-year-old twins.

(Betty loves Junie and Dagwood but after a few hours at the park, she’s exhausted and more than happy to return her niece and nephew to her sister so she can go home and read a book with a glass of wine.)

The Blue and Gold Used Bookshop is her favorite treat.

It certainly does not hurt that the man she assumes to be the owner is tall and handsome, with a winning smile and a rather cute beanie that vaguely resembles a crown.

Betty is usually too lost in her own world—and perhaps a bit too shy—to strike up conversation with him, but they smile politely to each and make small talk about whichever book she buys. Her last visit, when she was purchasing a well-loved copy of  _In Cold Blood_ full of intriguing margin notes she couldn’t resist, their small talk turned more intense and she could have easily stayed to discuss true crime writing styles with him for hours, but was already running late when she’d stopped in the shop.

He’d looked a little crestfallen when she said she needed to run and Betty vowed to return with enough time to actually introduce herself and pick his brain.   

She’s the crestfallen one this time when she walks through the door of The Blue and Gold to see a very beautiful brunette in very tight and low-cut workout clothes perched against the counter and touching the owner’s forearm in a way Betty knows to be a practiced flirting technique.

An unexpected flash of frustration runs through her, though she has absolutely zero reason to be jealous about someone hitting on a man whose name she doesn’t even know.

To his credit, the owner looks incredibly uncomfortable, backed all the way up to the wall behind the register and looking resolutely at a corner of the worn wood in the opposite direction of the woman’s ample chest.

“Oh, come on, you,” the woman simpers. “I’m sure you have time to share some book recommendations. I’ve been dying to get in here and you simply must show me around.” She punctuates her words by leaning further across the counter, chest-first.

The poor guy looks so trapped that Betty’s instinct takes over before she can stop herself. Squaring her shoulders, she rushes in his direction, chirping loudly, “Darling, hi, I got you a fresh cappuccino. I know you have to do the books today and figured you could use it!”

Behind the counter, he looks absolutely bewildered. But a less panicked bewildered than was directed toward the lycra’d pilates woman practically leaping over the counter at him.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the voice that sounds uncannily like her self-assured, badass-lady college friend Veronica hisses, _Sell it, B._  And so Betty tries to sell it. Without breaking stride, Betty slots herself behind the cramped counter and deposits the paper cup in his hand. He clutches at it like a life raft, which she supposes it is. All in the name of selling it, she lays a manicured hand on his shoulder, cozies in close, and stands on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. 

The tips of his ears are bright red under his dark hair when she retreats and there’s a faint trace of her pink lipstick on his cheek.

(Betty’s stomach does a complicated swooping thing at the sight.)

Seemingly to busy himself, he sips from the coffee she’s handed her. With a pang, Betty realizes she’ll need to buy another coffee. Not that the $4 is that big a deal, but Kevin will undoubtedly need to know why she’s returned so quickly and this is not something she wants to explain to anybody not in this three-foot radius.

Disgruntled and with narrowed eyes, the owner’s would-be suitor inspects Betty. Betty tries to look at herself from the perspective of a woman whose tactical flirting was just interrupted: a relatively plain blonde with zero traces of toned muscles and a kitschy cardigan with ladybugs printed on it. Likely not the most intimidating competition.

More astute than Betty would have guessed, the woman seems highly skeptical. “Oh, I didn’t see a ring.”

Betty wants to be offended on his behalf—and on her own. How many times has a guy hit on her in a bar and tried to use the lack of a physical symbol of a committed relationship as an excuse to doggedly pester her? It should be enough to state one’s disinterest.

She can’t help but think he feels the same way; there’s a stronger set of his jaw than before and he stands up a little straighter in indignance. And then he’s pulling Betty’s hand from his shoulder to lace his fingers through it before using his other hand to bring her forward with a slight jolt and quirking a smile in brief apology before leaning down to kiss her.

He tastes like her cappuccino.

For an unnamed quasi-acquaintance that Betty has been too shy to speak more than five words at a time to, he kisses her like they know each other phenomenally well. His lips are chapped but slide against hers with ease and he cradles her cheek in his palm like she’s something irreverent.

If she didn’t know better, Betty thinks she feels the tentative swipe of his tongue at her lips before they’re broken apart by the aggravated huffing of lycra-girl. “Good lord, point taken.” She turns on her heel and walks out the door, letting it slam behind her with enough force that the bell above it is knocked loose.

It’s then that Betty and the man realize his hand is still cupped around her jaw. She bites down on her bottom lip, tasting how far down her lipstick’s been smudged, and he removes his hand rub at the back of his neck.

His face is as red as hers feels.

“I, uh,” Betty stutters. “Sorry if that was too forward, it just looks like you needed some rescuing.”

He lets out a burst of laughter and Betty tracks the way his wayward forehead curl moves with the shake of his head. His hair is messy—as is most of his appearance what with the wrinkled shirt, muddy shoes, and sherpa jacket that looks like it’s seen better days—but in an endearing way.   

“Considering I’m the one who just stuck my tongue in your mouth, I don’t think you need to be the one concerned about being too forward.”

He has a point there.

Betty hopes she isn’t blushing too furiously when she says, “I don’t usually make a point of pretending to be dating strangers, though. I’d better get going.”

She manages to slip back out from behind the counter and get a few feet toward the door before he stops her.

“Wait, Betty!”

Did she tell him her name?

Her confusion must show because he raises the coffee cup in indication, where Kevin had scrawled her name in pink marker with an obnoxiously curly-cued Y. “I’m not exactly in the habit of kissing people I haven’t introduced myself too. I’m Jughead.” His smile sends a pleasant feeling down her spine. “I think I owe you a new cappuccino.”


End file.
